


fall to rise

by peter_parkerson (pidgeotto_gunderson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Swearing, no joke everything i've seen in this fandom is just peter suffering like we're all sadists, only reason i didn't write this romantic is because i hate doing est relationship sorry lmao, peter suffering: the fic, this doesn't even have a plot it's literally just vent writing, you could view this as romantic if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:10:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pidgeotto_gunderson/pseuds/peter_parkerson
Summary: He doesn’t mean to call Ned at three in the morning. Really, he doesn’t.It’s not Peter’s fault that he wakes in a cold sweat, hands shaking and throat burning - did he scream himself awake? - and the dial tone is ringing before he even knows what he’s doing. His stomach is flip-flopping as the phone trembles in his hands (he’ll drop it if he holds it in only one hand, he knows, and then Ned will be on the line alone, if he even answers, why would he even answer it’s three in the fucking morning).Peter wakes up at 3 am and Ned talks him down over the phone.





	fall to rise

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first published fic in a fandom that's not voltron since my supernatural days lmao. i needed a change of scenery, so to speak, and i've been really into hoco for a while so here's this

He doesn’t mean to call Ned at three in the morning. _Really,_ he doesn’t.

 

It’s not Peter’s fault that he wakes in a cold sweat, hands shaking and throat burning - did he scream himself awake? - and the dial tone is ringing before he even knows what he’s doing. His stomach is flip-flopping as the phone trembles in his hands (he’ll drop it if he holds it in only one hand, he knows, and then Ned will be on the line alone, if he even answers, why would he even answer it’s three in the fucking morning).

 

He can feel _everything_ \- his socks rubbing against his toes, his heart slamming in his chest, his ribcage contracting and expanding with every shaky breath he takes. He tastes fear on his tongue, sharp and metallic, and he feels desperation under his skin, hot and tingly.

 

By the time Ned picks up the phone, a hoarse “Hello?” floating through the speaker, Peter has kicked off his sheets (too hot, too tight, he’s suffocating) and slid, gracelessly, to the floor.

 

He tries to speak - _Ned, hey, I didn’t mean to call this late, it’s nothing, go back to sleep_ \- but his brain and his mouth do not want to cooperate with each other.

 

“Peter?”

 

Shit, he shouldn’t have called. Ned was asleep and now Peter woke him up and he’s gonna be annoyed and he’ll stop hanging out with him and Peter will be alone again and -

 

“Pete? Hey, is something wrong? Are you okay?”

 

Concern drips from his voice - Peter latches onto this, lets Ned’s words wash over him. Hates how much this grounds him, how much he craves the familiar lilt of his best friend’s voice. Hates that he’s a fucking superhero and yet he couldn’t stick this out by himself, couldn’t leave the people he cares about out of his bullshit.

 

(Sometimes he wonders why anyone would care about him enough to do something like this, to pick up the phone at three in the morning, when all he does for them is screw up.)

 

Vaguely, Peter registers that he’s coughing, gagging on something like regret, but it’s hard to focus on that when the walls of his bedroom are closing in and the bones of his torso are going concave.

 

Ned is talking, still, more and more frantically, and Peter forces himself to speak just to end Ned’s spiral, far past caring if he’s perpetuating his own. “Ned, I - I’m here.”

 

It comes out wobbly, words inserting themselves in the spaces between his coughs.

 

“Jesus, Peter,” Ned says, not unkindly. Peter zeroes in on the sound of his breathing,  just the slightest bit uneven, and tries to match it. “What’s going on?”

 

It proves to be harder than expected, and Peter gives up on slowing his breathing. What is he supposed to say? _I had a nightmare and panic-dialed you_ is childish and pathetic and everything Peter is trying not to be, but there’s not much else to go with.

 

Turns out, he doesn’t have to speak (which is nice, because there is a good chance he will not like anything that comes out of his mouth right now). There’s a quiet sigh though the speaker, then, “Did you have a nightmare, Peter?”

 

He keeps saying Peter’s name, in this soft sort of way that makes the world feel a little less cold, and Peter wants nothing more than to be in Ned’s room right now, where the walls stay in their rightful place and his best friend can hold his hand until he feels like a person again.

 

(At times, Peter is more trauma than person. At times, when his insides twist with anxiety and his eyes see bright streaks of blood where there are none, he is more pain than human being.)

 

He wants to say no - he almost does, almost hangs up the phone and rides this out alone. Because Aunt May is not here to hold him, though his screams surely would have woken her if she was home (graveyard shift, she has her own problems), and he doesn’t want to put this on anyone else, especially someone as innocent as Ned. Peter’s been so careful not to drag Ned through the mud with him, because someone in his life has to stay clean and Aunt May and Mr. Stark are already stained gray with Peter’s misery.

 

But the words are bubbling up in his throat, and, well. Ned’s always telling him that Peter doesn’t need to censor himself for his sake, maybe he can believe it for just a few minutes.

 

Peter inhales deeply enough to make his lungs burn with the effort, then lets the air whistle slowly, steadily through his teeth. “Yes.”

 

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “Okay. Okay, uh - do you wanna talk about it?”

 

Ned sounds much more alert now. Peter feels worse and worse for waking him up, but it’s too late to hang up.

 

“I - shit, I don’t -” He leans forward, head between his knees. Still wary of his ability to hold his phone in one hand, he puts his left hand out in front of him and, one at a time, touches each of his fingers to his thumb, starting with his pinky first and then going back down the line. Miraculously, he doesn’t drop the phone. “I don’t remember.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t remember what - what I dreamed about,” Peter says, then gives a short, humorless, borderline hysterical laugh. “I - I woke up and I panicked and I called you and now I don’t even - I don’t know what I was dreaming about, Ned.”

 

He can picture Ned, sitting in bed with one hand in his hair, one clutching the phone, brow furrowed and lips pursed in either pity or sympathy. Even in Peter’s own head, he can’t tell the difference.

 

He says after a moment, “That’s okay, Peter.”

 

He says, “Don’t feel bad for calling me.”

 

He says, “What do you need right now, Petey?”

 

 _Petey_. No one’s called him ‘Petey’ in a while now - it feels like a version of himself that Peter hasn’t really been since - just since.

 

Petey is young and innocent and comfortable _._ Petey is stable and contented and _safe._

 

Peter is shaken and uneasy and insecure. Peter is harrowed and strained and _terrified_.

 

(Peter is falling apart at the seams. Peter is drowning in his own misery. Peter is teetering on the edge of broken.)

 

“I need -” Peter starts, and he’s hyperaware of the elevated speed of his pulse. “Ned - Ned, I - I need -”

 

_I need to breathe._

 

He can’t breathe. His chest is tight and his lungs are burning and his fingertips are numb and he can’t _breathe._

 

“I need you, Ned,” Peter chokes out on a puffed exhale, and suddenly he’s crying - awful, snotty, full-on sobs. “I’m - I need - Ned, _please,_ I can’t -”

 

Peter’s had panic attacks before. He’s gone through phases where he’ll have panic attacks on every other day and phases where he won’t have them for months, but they’re always hovering under the surface, this dull hum of static beneath his skin.

 

It’s been…two weeks since his last attack? That sounds right.

 

“I’m s-sorry, Ned, I’m -” Peter hiccups harshly. His stomach twists. “I d-don’t - I’m sorry I called - I, I -”

 

His breaths are coming _way_ too fast. He knows this, rationally, knows he needs to slow down, but he doesn’t know how to. It’s so hard, he can’t do this, he -

 

He doesn’t know _how._

 

“Peter,” Ned says, firmly, levelly. “Peter, listen to me, okay?”

 

He clamps his mouth shut, resisting the urge to shove his fist in his mouth and scream.

 

“Pete, you have to breathe, alright? That’s all you have to do right now, just focus on my voice and _breathe_. In for six, out for eight, remember? Like we always do.”

 

In for six, out for eight. In for six, out for eight. In for six -

 

Fuck, he lost his count.

 

“It’s okay, Peter, just start over.”

 

Did he say that out loud? Must have.           

 

He does as Ned said, restarting his count on a sharp inhale.

 

_One, two, three, four, five, six._

 

“That’s it, Petey, you’re alright. You’re safe, baby, you’re alright.”

 

_You’re safe, baby._

 

He wonders if Ned picked that up from Aunt May - his aunt has comforted his best friend almost as many times as she’s comforted him. And he’s had nightmares while Ned’s been over, a scarce couple of times, and he knows Ned well enough to know that he’s probably eavesdropped.

 

“Peter, do you need me to come over? Because I’ll do it, I can sneak out and be over in fifteen.”

 

What?

 

“Better yet, I can wake my moms up and tell them I’m leaving, they’ll let me go if I tell them what’s up. Do you want me to -”

 

It takes him way too long to process, but as soon as he does he sputters, “No, no, Ned, you don’t - you don’t have to do that.”

 

“I know, but I will if you need me to.” There’s not a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He’d actually get out of bed at…3:28 in the morning and _walk_ all the way over in the dark, in the middle of Queens, because Peter had a nightmare. If that’s not dedication, Peter doesn’t know what is.

 

“No, it’s alright, Ned,” Peter says, and he means it. He feels…not quite _okay_ , but better. Definitely better. The walls have stopped moving, at least. His hands still shake, but that’s practically a given.

 

Ned has this effect on him, where he can talk Peter down from a cliff without him even noticing the space between the edge of the cliff and the bottom. It’s different than working through a panic attack with Aunt May or Mr. Stark, somehow - it’s like they’re _trying_ to be calming, where Ned just _is_ calming. Always.

 

Where he would be without Ned, he doesn’t want to know. If nothing else, he definitely wouldn’t be as stable as he is now, which...still isn’t all that stable, but it’s something.

 

(It’s a lot.

 

Sometimes, Peter will imagine what his life, or certain parts of it, would be like if he didn’t have the support system he does. If anyone asked, he’d tell them that he’s always imagined he’d be fine on his own.

 

Realistically, he knows he’d be dead by now. Whether he’d have been killed by an accident, a criminal, or his own thoughts is the only toss up.)

 

Ned has saved his life more times than he can count, in more ways than he can count. Peter thinks he should know this.

 

What comes out of his mouth is, “I love you.”

 

Not quite what he’d meant to say, but he thinks it gets the sentiment across nonetheless.

 

For a moment, Ned’s breathing is the only thing Peter hears. And then, “I know.”

 

Peter laughs. Really, actually laughs this time, despite the dried tear tracks on his face and the lingering taste of copper in his mouth. Leans forward and runs a hand through his forehead, hears himself snort, grossly, and pretends it sounds endearing. “Did you just Han Solo me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

And Peter’s brain is still on overdrive and the panic has not quite subsided yet, but he knows that there will always be _Star Wars_ jokes and breathing exercises and _Ned_ and he thinks it’s enough for right now.

 

Peter smiles - it’s a tiny quirk of the lips that Ned can’t even see, but it’s still a smile - and says, “Thank you, Ned. And goodnight.”

 

“No problem. Goodnight, Petey.”

 

(Maybe Petey and Peter aren’t so far apart. The words weigh different in Peter’s head, but not on Ned’s lips.)

 

“Oh, and Peter?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I love you too.”

 

Ned hangs up. Peter falls back to sleep an hour later, losing track of his eight-count in the middle of a soft exhale.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://peter-parkerson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
